


Like Vodka, Like Blood

by pennywife



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Homophobic Language, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Showers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: He’ll regret it tomorrow. He’s sure of it.





	Like Vodka, Like Blood

“I’m gonna go take a shower.”  
  
Hank nods, but Barry can see the way his shoulders drop. The bottle of vodka slackens in his grip. It falls down further between his spread legs, and Barry tries to keep his eyes from following it there. If he lets himself look, even just once, the facade will be cracked, and every ounce of self-preservation he’s fought so hard for will vanish. All of his feigned indifference, and insults, and refusal to reciprocate— it will all have been for nothing.  
  
He can feel the tension in the air, the flood of warmth in his face when throws up a hand to squeeze tight the frame of the doorway. It slices through the intoxicating haze of his mind, makes every step away feel so vital, so closely watched beneath the other man’s eyes. A beat passes before he breaks. Before he’s even out of the living room he turns his head to side, fumbles with a drunken tongue to force out something he’s begging himself not to say.  
  
“You can uh...” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You can come too. You know, if— I mean if you want to... I guess.”  
  
Hank‘s out of his chair before he even finishes the sentence.  
  
He’ll regret it tomorrow. He’s sure of it. There’s no way to know for certain what horrible thing will come of this, but it has to be something, because that’s how Barry’s life works. Every action, every desire, every mistake; they’re all just fucking plot devices.  
  
Maybe it’s the masochist in himself, his shrouded desire to throw his entire body and everything he loves to the flames. Maybe it’s only the thrill of the risk, the intoxicating pump of adrenaline he gets when he rips forward the handle of the shower. He doesn’t know where the impulse to do this came from, or even how long he’s had it. All he knows is that it’s _here_ , a need so loud it feels like his eardrums may burst from the force of it.  
  
A pair of fingers reach out to trail gently down his spine, following the path of the water when he drops his head to stare at the drain. It steals the air from his lungs. Eyes closed again; his chest heaves, searching for the memory of how to fucking breathe. Water pools into his lips when he parts them. It’s warm, metallic, gushing out from the faucet and running down over his face.  
  
_Like blood,_ he thinks, and winces. He’s there again, standing over the body of a man he never should have killed. He can hear the screaming, like a gun firing inches away from his ears. He can smell the pine of the forest, sees clearly the blooming field of red when it bursts out from the back of Moss’s skull. Something churns in his stomach, and he decides he doesn’t want to think about blood anymore tonight.  
  
Instead Barry turns around. For the first time since Hank has taken off his clothes, he lets himself look. He takes in the soft curl of a smile on the other man’s face, the gold-plated cross hanging down from his neck. His eyes trace the patterns of faded ink on Hank’s bare skin, the river of a swollen vein that travels down the length of his forearm. He reaches out with reverence, long fingers stroking the impossibly smooth flesh. There’s a scar there, right above his heart, and Barry tries to remember if he’s the one who put it there.  
  
“You look good, Barry.” Hank murmurs, elation unhidden as he draws his eyes up the other man’s body. “Like, really really good.”  
  
It isn’t lust. It’s assurance; and when at last he dives forward to slide his tongue into Barry’s mouth, Barry swears he can still taste the vodka.

Hank huffs out a grin, when he pulls back to let the both of them breathe. “You have never done this before.”  
  
Barry’s eyes are closed. He swallows, hard.  
  
“No.” He answers, even though he knows it wasn’t a question. “Not... with a guy- or- or a man.”  
  
“Why not? I thought you were in Navy.”  
  
The hitman freezes. “I was in the Marines.” He screws up his face and shakes his head. “What is that even supposed to— what does that even _mean?”_  
  
Dark eyes dart to the side, and then Hank kisses him again; soft and wet, and when Barry’s teeth bang hard against his own he doesn’t even flinch. He just takes it, all of it, letting Barry explore his mouth with his fingers tangled tight in his hair. They’re open to each other, chapped lips parted wide, and he tries not to think about whether that really means anything.

Hank snakes an arm around the small of his back, an act so fluid and rehearsed; an anchor to pull him in with. Barry’s own hands hang out awkwardly by his sides, too confused and too nervous about what to do with them now. He feels himself moving forward, like he’s falling. Their chests press together, and he’s so close he can feel the thrum of the other man’s heartbeat. Everything is together now, two puzzle pieces fuzed at the seams. Everything touches; their chests and their stomachs and their— oh. Barry tenses.

A hairless hand moves to cover his own, encouraging him to reach down and just touch. He obliges, with the grace of someone who never once thought he’d ever be doing this, and grips the swell of Hank’s cock between his fingers. Barry jerks him, slowly, inexpertly; just enough to roll the uncut skin over the flared tip of his head. Hank shudders, and Barry can’t help but keep his eyes open through their kiss; panic and arousal mingling together until he can’t even separate the two. His own cock hangs hard and heavy and untouched between them, and when he thrusts up against Hank without thinking, the Chechen pulls back all together.  
  
“Oh, Barry- I am so selfish.”

Hank shakes his head, as if to convey how at odds he is with whatever he thinks he’s done wrong. Then he drops all at once, down onto his knees on the tiled floor of the shower.

Barry flattens his palms against the wall behind him, the sudden gesture enough to make him bite down hard on a gasp. Hank glances up at him, quirks a hairless brow as if to ask for permission, or maybe even encouragement. Barry nods, far more quickly than he’d meant to, and feels embarrassed for it.  
  
Hank steadies the base of his cock, other hand reaching around to rest gently at the back of his knee. It’s the first time a man has ever touched him like this, a reminder so unable to be ignored it’s like a neon sign flashing red and blue in his mind. Before he can overthink it, or psych himself out enough to ruin it; Hank vanishes his dick into the heat of his mouth.  
  
“Fuck.” Barry hisses. It’s all he can say; all he can think. It’s everywhere within him; filling up his mind like the hot steam filling up the spaces of his bathroom. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  
  
The numbing of the alcohol keeps him from coming; without it he’s sure he would have lost it the moment he felt Hank’s tongue swirl around the slit of his head. He feels himself press against the back of Hank’s throat again and again; but never once does the other man gag or falter around him. Even when Barry’s hips twitch forward, he hollows his cheeks, and takes it all with a moan.

When without warning he pulls suddenly back, Barry clamps down on a whine.

“I am kind of drowning here.” Hank admits, an eye squeezed shut as the water cascades down his face. His once pink lips are now scarlet, swollen and glistening under the fluorescent light above them when he tilts his head up to look the older man in the eye.

“Fuck me.” Barry breathes. It comes from nowhere, spills out from his lips like vomit, like the rushing of the faucet behind him.

“Are you joking?”  
  
Barry searches the other man’s eyes for meaning, thick brows knitted firmly together.

A half-shrug passes through Hank’s shoulders. “I had just assumed that, you know, if we ever did anything, it would be you who would be fucking me... But this?” Excitement reflects bright in the dark-colored rings of his eyes. “This is good too.”  
  
Barry tries to force a smile back. It’s crooked, and awkward, but he tries.  
  
“Should we uh... In _here_ ...?”  
  
“Oh no. Water is like, big no-no for butt-sex.”  
  
“Hank, that’s—“ Barry squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing at the word.  
  
Oblivious to what he could have possibly said wrong, Hank turns and struts naked across the room. There’s a bounce to his stride, a self-assurance and happiness that Barry can’t help but envy for himself. Hank has done things worse than Barry is sure he could ever even imagine, yet they roll off the other man’s skin like the water dripping down from his fingertips.  
  
“I have uh... Some lotion.” Barry raises a finger to point at the nightstand. “That should be good, right?”  
  
Hank hesitates for a moment. Then he drops to a crouch, rummaging through the drawers of the tiny dresser before pulling free a small plastic tub. Vaseline, Barry realizes vaguely, having forgotten he even had it. Hank grins at the small victory when he stands up again; all displaced innocence and wholehearted joy, and beckons Barry over to sit next to him on the bed. Barry takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and obeys. The surreality of it all makes his head spin; heading toward the other man on knees that he’s begging not to wobble, but when Hank kisses him again, trailing down to his neck, the white noise blaring in his mind seems to stop.

They jerk each off other like that for a while, Hank’s tongue lapping drunkenly at the curve of Barry’s jaw. It doesn’t feel forced or mechanic; it just works. Barry likes it, the feel of Hank in his hand, the gentle rolling of his skin, the stark contrast between them. He wants more of it, wants Hank to fuck him, wants Hank to fuck him hard. He breaks away to urge him on top of him, trying to keep from letting him feel just how hard his hands are shaking.

Hank closes any semblance of distance between their bodies, the ceiling fan prickling their dampened skin before they’ve had a chance to warm each other up again. Barry spreads his legs for him, and that alone makes his heart gallop in his chest.

“Are you sure?” Hank asks skeptically, pulling back to search the furrowed lines of his face. “Like, totally totally sure?”  
  
Barry nods, at odds with the anxiety building within himself. His eyes follow the younger man’s hand when it reaches out to the tub of petroleum jelly on the nightstand. Hank smears it over his fingers, and when he reaches down to press behind Barry’s balls he stops him.  
  
“No, just... You don’t have to do that.”  
  
Hank’s lips twist into an almost-frown. “I don’t know, Barry, it might be a little bit—“  
  
“It’s fine.”

Hank shrugs, but the worried look in his eyes doesn’t pass. He rubs the jelly over the head of his own cock, drawing it down until every inch of him is coated and slick. With his dry hand he reaches behind the bend of Barry’s knee, presses forward. Barry’s own hands twist into the soft fabric of his sheets, once again unsure what to do with them now.

“Do it.” Barry urges, a demand that wasn’t meant to come out as a whisper, and Hank hurries to oblige him.

He watches Hank’s eyes widen at the impossible pressure, feels his own lips pull back over his teeth. The pain cuts through the alcohol like a knife through soft flesh, breath catching somewhere in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching so hard he worries his teeth might crack. He’s panting now, erection flagging and going limp between his legs while Hank’s remains solid inside of him.

Hank starts to withdraw. Barry digs his heels into the small of his back, keeps him still and unmoving within him. He shakes his head in refusal, unable to form the words to say that this is fine and he can take it and he doesn’t need to stop. He’s heard and read enough about this to know that the searing stretch will soon ebb, that this will soon feel the way that he wants it to; so the two stay there for a moment, frozen like marble statues over the mattress.

It strikes Barry, just how patient Hank is as he shifts his weight back onto his knees.

The hand on his thigh digs tiny red crescents into his skin, fingers clenching and unclenching again and again as he waits for Barry to finally relax.  
  
“Push out, Barry... It will help.”  
  
A hiss splits through Barry’s gritted teeth. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
  
Hank sinks in a little deeper. The muscles in Barry’s abdomen clench up in response, and he bites the back of his wrist to keep from gasping.  
  
“It is.” The Chechen assures him, rolling his hips to pull out far enough that he nearly slips out. “Trust me. I am like, total expert at this.”  
  
“Expert at— ah, fuck— at doing this? Or having it done to you?”  
  
A serene half-smile tugs at the corner of Hank’s lip. “Both.”

A moment passes before he slides in again, and Barry turns his head to stare at a badly patched-over bullet hole in the wall beside them. Hank starts a pace; shallow, steady increments, and suddenly the friction doesn’t feel so terrible anymore. Bearable, even.

Hank moves deeper now, quick little rabbit-thrusts; and Barry’s hand flies out to grip at his shoulder. The head of his cock grazes against something inside of him now with every stroke, clenching his stomach with warmth. Hank’s face lights up. A bead of sweat has broken above his brow. It rolls down the curve of his eye-socket, over the swell of his cheek when he lets loose a grin.

“Your ass is so tight, man.” Hank breathes out a laugh; like he’s amazed, like he can’t even believe this is happening right now.

Barry, far removed from the man himself, sounds out a full-throated moan. His thighs are starting to ache, stretched and bent too far backwards in this position for a man of his age, but he doesn’t even care. He hones in on the sensation, the bursts of pleasure that light up the back of his eyes every time Hank thrusts inside of him. His cock is so big, so perfectly angled for this— should he tell him that? No, that’s too fucking weird.

The frame of the bed slides and rocks violently against the wall, and Barry prays to God his roommates haven’t returned without him hearing. Hank fucks him thoroughly, harder and faster now than he ever imagined he’d be able to take. The pain isn’t gone, not really, but the pleasure is so strong it’s like it doesn’t even fucking matter anymore. He can feel the tip of his cock weeping up against his stomach, harder than he thinks he’s been in years. Barry opens his eyes, watching the light reflect off from Hank’s necklace as it swings back and forth.

“I might come.” Barry warns, though he isn’t even sure if he said it loud enough to be heard.

Another deep thrust against that place inside of him, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop it even if he wanted to. The pressure flowers, unfurls; ringing out like a bell in his ears when his orgasm rips steadily through him. He comes untouched between them, biting his wrist so hard he thinks he might have drawn blood.

Hank’s still fucking him, when his body melts down into the bed. There’s a look of amazement on the other man’s face, mingled with pride, and he closes his eyes before slamming in and out of him. Barry groans, helpless against the overstimulation, until at long last Hank’s arms start to tremble where they’re digging into the mattress by his head. His body shakes when he stills, a warm throb of cum filling him up, and Barry’s too exhausted to care that he forgot to tell him to pull out first.

“Fuck,” Hank whispers, shaking his head. He glances down towards their stomachs, eyes tracing over the near-dried cum anointed between them.

A while passes before Hank starts to relax on top of him. He braces an elbow on the bed by Barry’s head, trying and failing to catch his breath.

“Hank.”  
  
“Yes, Barry?”  
  
“Do you think you could… Get off of me now?”  
  
The Chechen sighs, before dropping all at once over to rest beside him. Leg draped lazily over the center of Barry’s thigh they lay there, a tangled mess on Barry’s once pristine sheets.

Barry turns his head to glance at him, watching a look of satisfaction creep over the other man’s face, then stares back up numbly towards the ceiling.

“Why are you... so...” He pauses for a moment, grasping for the words, “Nice to me?”  
  
Hank smiles, but for some reason it doesn’t look the same to Barry as it always does. It’s softer, and different in a way he doesn’t really know how to describe.  
  
“Because you are good guy, Barry. Like, stellar one-of-a-type kind of guy.”  
  
Barry shakes his head. “But I’m not though. I’m just a fucking... Murderer.” _Fucking murderer,_ Janice Moss’s voice chants in his mind. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.  
  
“Doing bad things doesn’t make us bad guys.” Hank explains, matter-of-factly. “What we do does not matter. Not really, anyway. All that matters, is right here.” Hank punctuates his sentence by reaching over to poke at the space above Barry’s heart, and the hitman scrunches his face up in disgust to shove him away.

It’s a nice sentiment, but Barry knows it isn’t true.  
  
The promise of pain gnaws at the base of his spine. The ache in his head is sharp and searing, pain reverberating like a gunshot wound to the inside of his skull.  Soon, before he passes out and forgets, he’ll need to get up and take another shower. He’ll need to drink a glass of water and down a few aspirin, kick Hank out and try to process just how badly he’s fucked up here tonight, but for now he just lays here. Hank turns to drape an arm over his chest, and against his better judgment, Barry closes his eyes.


End file.
